


Satiation

by greenhare



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Het and Slash, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenhare/pseuds/greenhare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For someone who exhibits an excessive amount of antisocial tendencies, Sherlock has an awful lot of sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lily and Carolina

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a serious, multi-chapter fic. I wrote it as I felt a terrible need for series 3. Please bear with me as I work through it, and don't hesitate to give me feedback!
> 
> For now, regard John as straight and Sherlock as bi.
> 
> Enjoy!

For someone who exhibits an excessive amount of antisocial tendencies, Sherlock has an awful lot of sex.

Of course, John doesn’t expect this at all after the conversation about being “married to my job” and not having girlfriends or boyfriends. He’s wary though, because he’d heard those lines before. They were just masking someone too busy to realize how lonely they were, and he doubts that Sherlock is any different, especially when the owner of the restaurant puts a candle on their table. Sherlock must have brought some other romantic company with him here at least once to warrant this kind of treatment. John wants to ask about that, but he’s distracted by watching the cab outside—distracted by Sherlock’s world. The man is a hurricane, and John enjoys sitting in the eye of it. He can feel the turbulence and danger waiting just at the edge of his fingertips. All he has to do is reach out and take it for himself. It’s a feeling so close to home that John can’t help but follow Sherlock everywhere. Although he’s shot at, threatened, and captured more than once, he’s never disappointed in his life choices.

A couple months after they move in there’s a lull in the action. John goes to work at the clinic and leaves Sherlock to his own business (which includes shooting the walls with a revolver to Mrs. Hudson’s indignation), and returns home with his meager part of the rent. When Sherlock is home, he can take a glance at John and give an appropriate response with a detached sort of tone that suggests he’s not really interested in the answer itself but the confirmation of his guess—how was the date or late night at work. John’s never quite sure how the man makes these deductions so quickly, but he accepts it as routine and doesn’t question the source of his information.

One night, John gets home early. He brews himself a pot of tea, sits in his chair, and opens the paper to do the crossword. It’s the beginning of autumn, so the weather is beginning to turn cold quickly. He starts a fire as the night ushers in the chill and sets about working on his blog. He’s in a good writing zone with he hears the downstairs door burst open. A few moments later, Sherlock enters the apartment with a young woman in tow. She’s ridiculously attractive with blond hair that curls over her shoulders and bright, green eyes that draw his gaze. She’s wearing a red, form-fitting dress that’s above the knee but not too short as to be crude. John feels like he’s seen her on the tube before, in some commercial for perfume or something. He raises an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“John, Lily, Lily, John.” He says briskly, then ushers her to his bedroom without another word.  John shrugs it off and thinks that he’s interviewing a suspect, although it is odd that he would bring one into the apartment. Maybe he can ask her out for coffee afterwards. He pities her soul for the trial she’s about to go through until fifteen minutes later when he hears an unabashed, completely wrecked moan from upstairs. He cocks his head and listens again from the sound, and then it comes again—feminine and that is definitely not a cry of despair or frustration.

He folds the newspaper he was reading and lays it on the side table.

He makes his way cautiously toward the base of the stairs and looks up, as if this will enable him to see what’s going on in Sherlock’s room. John strains his ears and concentrates, but to no avail. He walks very gently up the stairs. Eavesdropping on Sherlock’s activities isn’t exactly wrong, he convinces himself, because Sherlock would probably just waltz in the middle of John having sex if it so pleased him. John’s brow furrows at the idea (there’s too much truth in that for comfort) and presses his ear gently to Sherlock’s door.

He can hear panting and the rustling of cloth come from inside. And then what he can only assume to be Lily’s voice moans “Oh, Sherlock….”

John rips himself away from the door and tries not to stumble to the floor. _What the bloody hell?_ Is Sherlock really having sex? With another human being?

John descends the stairs bewildered.

Two hours later ( _Two hours!_ ), Sherlock walks Lily back down the stairs with a polite hand on her back. Her hair is a little messy, but otherwise, she looks the same. He smiles at her when he holds the door open for her.

“You are amazing,” she says leaning in and placing her hands on his chest, “Don’t hesitate to call again, darling.” She flutters her eyelashes at him, and John manages not to gape.

“Of course.” Sherlock says, all charm and no sociopath. She leaves and Sherlock shuts the door behind her.

He makes his way over to his laptop and opens it.

John waits for Sherlock to speak for about a minute before he blurts, “Excuse me, what was that?”

Sherlock pauses typing to look at John, “I’m sorry, what was what?”

John clears his throat. “That girl.”

“Oh, I apologize about that. I didn’t know she was going to be so loud. You know how women can be when you—“

“No, no, no,” John cuts him off before the consulting detective can reveal details he really doesn’t want to ever know, “I mean, didn’t you say you weren’t interested in relationships?”

Sherlock almost looks exasperated, like he’s being forced to talk to Anderson. “I’m not. That was a prostitute.”

“Oh.” John really doesn’t know what else to say.

“Is that a problem?”

John swallows. He can feel Sherlock’s scrutiny. Not judgment, just the curiosity of how John will react. “No, I was just… I didn’t think you _had_ sex.”

“I have needs like everyone else, so I fill them as they come.” Sherlock goes back to typing, shifting his attention from John. John shakes his head, trying to unhear the double-entendre.

“So this will be happening again?”

Sherlock doesn’t even look up. “About twice a week.”

“Ah.” John spends the next hour getting over that conversation.

True to his estimate, Sherlock brings home another woman three days later. John’s just come back from a long day at the clinic, so he doesn’t want to do anything but sleep after he brews a cup of tea. Sherlock takes a look at John in his robe and night clothes and turns to the beautiful brunette on his arm (bloody hell does the man have great taste in women) and tells her to wait on the couch for him. John supposes he should be grateful that he doesn’t have to listen to Sherlock pleasuring this girl (Carolina, she’s Spanish) right next door to his room so he inclines his head before going up stairs. Sherlock gives him a nod in return. The next morning, Carolina is gone and there are no stains on the couch, so John tries to shrug it off.

He catches Sherlock in the kitchen before he heads off to work. Sherlock’s ducking to look at something brewing that’s slowly turning indigo and starting to smoke and smell putrid. John has learned not to question the experiments by now, but he wonders about the etiquette surrounding Sherlock’s sexual life. Is he supposed to ask after Carolina? Or Lily? Is it even socially acceptable for him to ask about the sex?

In the end, John’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“So… how was Carolina?”

Sherlock looks up at him with an unreadable expression, and John realizes that he should have kept his mouth shut.

“I don’t mean ‘how was she’, I mean how was she doing? Oh god, that’s not what I meant either—“

“The sex was okay. I’ve had better.”

“That’s not what I was asking about.” John splutters, embarrassed.

“John, please. We can be adults about this. Do you want recommendations?”

John almost slaps himself in the forehead. Socially acceptable be damned, this is Sherlock he’s talking to. There are almost no boundaries with the man.

This is apartment life with Sherlock— girlfriends and boyfriends no, but prostitutes yes. They continue to go to crime scenes at Lestrade’s request, and while John does feel useless standing next to Sherlock, he can’t but be mesmerized at the way the deductions come to Sherlock so easily. Sherlock’s mind takes in the ordinary things and does extraordinary things with them. He can’t help but be fascinated with him, and while no one would argue that Sherlock’s ego needs more stroking, the occasional “brilliant” still escapes the doctor.

“How did you learn to do that?” John asks one night as they walk away from a crime scene and back to their cab. The air is decidedly colder, and Sherlock is wearing his iconic overcoat and blue scarf with John wearing a navy jumper and his black coat to combat the chill.

“Do what?” Sherlock doesn’t break stride.

“Think like that. Make deductions.”

They get in the cab, and Sherlock directs the cabbie to home. “How often do you think?”

“How do you mean?”

Sherlock looks out the window as if he’s searching for clues even though the crime scene is quickly fading into the background, “How often do you really think? Not the trivial things like what to eat or what to wear, but _really_ think?” At this point he turns to John and looks straight into his eyes. The doctor feels the intensity of the question turned on him. He always feels slightly nervous when Sherlock gives him that look, the one that expects answers (correct answers) from John.

“I read the morning paper for the news and think about that.” John replies.

“No, no,” Sherlock says quickly, exasperated, “That’s not thinking, that’s propaganda. I’m talking about _thinking_. You brew tea on the stove. Do you ever wonder about how the stove works? How the gas is controlled or lit? Why we don’t all get blown to pieces every time the pilot lights?” Sherlock’s eyes are the color of ice, but they burn with something else at this point. It’s something akin to the phenomenon that John sometimes sees Sherlock exhibit at crime scenes when he’s working through the scenarios out loud—his eyes become bright, almost feverish, with an intensity that makes everyone stop questioning him and just listen. It’s like watch a flame come alive, and in this moment, John is watching that flame dance in Sherlock’s eyes.

“No, I can’t say I have thought about that.” John says lamely, looking down briefly. He feels slightly embarrassed for admitting it, as if he’s disappointing Sherlock by being boring.

“Exactly,” Sherlock continues unfazed. He turns his gaze away, fixating on some other point in the cab, “The gas comes through the pipes and mixes with air to make a more easily controlled flame. There’s a small tube that leads off the side where an electric spark will ignite it and feed the flame back to the main pipe. That’s why no one uses the stove when the electricity’s out. No spark means no flame, and no flame means the gas doesn’t get burned up so you end up with a ticking time bomb, the detonator being when the electricity comes back on. Older stoves have a pilot light that’s constantly lit by feeding the small flame gas at all times. They make for more time bombs. It’s all information readily available to the public, but no one bothers to look.”

John sits in silence for a moment, “Why do _you_ bother?”

“Because I can’t sleep until I know.”

 

 

 

They’re silent the rest of the ride home as John tries to imagine what it’s like to be possessed by curiosity so strong that it wouldn’t let you sleep. He concludes that it must be lonely.


	2. Olivia

When Sherlock brought Lily—was that her name?—he had counted on the fact that John would be surprised. He had made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t very interested in women or men for companionship; the fact that he had taken up relying on John was the truly surprising turn of events in his life. He found himself drawn to John, partly because John didn’t begrudge his constant barrage of intellectual enlightenment, and partly because of something else that he couldn’t put his finger on. On the surface, John seemed incredibly ordinary. At least, as ordinary as a retired military doctor could be. And yet, John continued to prove to him that nothing about him was ordinary.

“Where’s your dog?” Donovan asks one day when he arrives on a crime scene alone. (John has promised to spend the day with—Sarah? Elizabeth? Some plain name attached to a pretty face with ginger hair he can’t bother to remember.) They’re in a park, where trees stand starkly naked against the dreary white sky. Sherlock looks Donovan up and down and comes up with five painfully truthful things he can hurl at her. He opens his mouth to start with her terrible sex life (even he wouldn’t wish Anderson as a sexual partner on his enemies), when Lestrade strides in.

“Where’s John?” (Dark circles under his eyes, the divorce is going badly.)

“Busy.” Sherlock replies shortly. He doesn’t need John here, at least, not now. Lestrade, thankfully, doesn’t push it.

“Allright. What have you got for me?” The DI tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat. It’s deep in the throes of winter now, and a light snow is coming down on them. Sherlock takes a moment to look at Lestrade again, narrowing his eyes. No, John isn’t a dog. Lestrade could be, with his open face and honest demeanor. Really, the man is an open book. Deep rooted sense of duty, loyal to a fault, but pragmatic. Smart, but not impressively intelligent. Yes, Lestrade could have been a dog in another life.

“Sherlock?” The man in question realizes that he’s been staring at Lestrade for a bit longer than is socially acceptable. He snaps quickly back to the body at hand.

It’s a young woman in her mid-twenties, stripped naked and positioned so that her hands are folded over her belly. Her skin is pale, almost translucent from the cold. There’s a bouquet of bare branches underneath her hands, delicately tied with twine (that Sherlock has already snipped a sample of). Her eyes are open, clouded, and her pale neck has the tell-tale purpling of a 4 +1 pattern of fingers (strangled). Dark brown hair has been carefully combed down and lies straight in the snow (attention to detail, perfectionist). There are scratch marks on her forearms and a dark substance that Sherlock hasn’t identified yet underneath her fingernails (probably fibers of some sort, scratched off the killer, maybe leather).

“You have a sadist on your hands. This wasn’t personal; he couldn’t have known her for more than ten minutes. Probably picked her out of a crowd because she was alone. He’ll kill again, probably soon.”

“Hold on, now, who isn’t to say a jealous lover killed her?” Ah yes, Anderson has arrived in his ridiculous plastic suit, kit in hand.

“Please, if this was a crime of passion, he wouldn't leave her to be displayed like this. A ‘jealous lover’” Sherlock enunciates with great sarcasm, “would want to hide the body. He’d also express regret or remorse. Also, she isn’t the first body you’ve found.” Anderson does look properly surprised now. “Come on, you wouldn’t have called me for something as boring as this if she were the first.” He looks at Lestrade expectantly.

The DI sighs heavily. “She’s the second in a month. The first—“

“I want pictures and details emailed to me.” Sherlock would rather not have to sort through all the biases and redundant observations. He turns away, his coat swirling behind him.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“Research!” He calls back, keenly aware of the twine in his pocket. The cold hounds him stubbornly despite the scarf and coat. He ducks into a café on a whim.

He hears a ding not long after he sits and pulls out his phone. The email with the details has just arrived, and he thumbs through the pictures eagerly. Finding the pattern to serial killers were always fun, especially with so little to go on. Sherlock glues himself to the screen, unaware of almost everything else going on around him.

After about half an hour of studying the case files and photos, he looks up to rest his eyes. There are a good number of people in the café, students studying and a few couples. A woman in the far corner catches his eye. Early thirties, short, blonde hair. Reading a novel, probably a cheap romance novel, the kind they sell in convenience stores next to the crosswords. She’s long since finished her coffee and has been stealing glances at Sherlock since he came in.

He stands, straightening his posture and makes his way over.

\---

Her name is Olivia, a professor teaching history in a university that’s already on holiday. She tells Sherlock that she’s single (a lie, he can see the slightly lighter band of skin on her ring finger and catches glimpses of her texting her husband about their daughter) and that she’s never been to London (also a lie, the barista at the café waved goodbye to her too warmly for a stranger), but her lips are soft and her smile is charming.

“You never told me what you did for a living.” She muses, tracing random paths along Sherlock’s naked back. The sheets are twisted around them as they lie on their sides. Olivia props her head up as her unoccupied hand continues to map Sherlock’s body. Her fingers are smooth (wealthy, doesn’t do the dishes herself, buys expensive hand creams to keep her skin soft and young), and the sensation is vaguely pleasant.

“I’m a consulting detective.” He answers easily. The confusion lights in her eyes, but she laughs almost immediately.

“I’ve never heard of that, but it suits you. You’re very mysterious.”

“Really? Do go on.” He says, scooting a little closer. She giggles again.

“Well, you must also be very intelligent if you’re a consultant of anything. A smooth-talker as well.” She pauses, “Graceful, too. Almost cat-like.”

Sherlock wonders at that. Intelligent, independent, and curious beyond reason. Cat-like indeed.

\---

Olivia is gone when John comes home. Sherlock’s already showered and is sitting at his desk, flipping through the first and second murders side by side when he hears the key turn in the lock.

“I bought more milk—please don’t use it for… whatever it was you were doing yesterday.” John begins to take off his coat.

“Enzyme reaction studies,” Sherlock supplies, “Don’t bother taking off your coat; we’re going to the lab.”

John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose after putting the milk into the fridge. “Bloody body parts everywhere,” he mumbles, “Sherlock, I’ve had a long day—“

“Two homicides, second body just recently turned up. I sent you the photos.” Sherlock clicks his laptop shut and stands, “Serial killer just gaining momentum. I expect he’ll kill again within the month.”

John straightens and Sherlock can see the allure pulling him in. His eyes are tired but determined. He crosses the room to grab his laptop. “Allright, but I want coffee.”

“I’m sure Molly can get us some.”

“Sherlock—“ John starts with the admonishing tone.

“Come along, John.”

As they ride along in the cab, Sherlock takes a brief glance at John. There’s a quiet fierceness in him, not quite dormant and not quite hidden. Sherlock’s met people with post-traumatic stress disorder, and although John has been affected by his time in the military, it’s not haunting him. At least, not in the debilitating way that cripples most people. No, John has probably always been this way. The war was just a catalyst. Sherlock’s eyes wander downwards to the pockets of John’s coat, where he can see the slight outline of his gun. Ready to shoot, calm under enemy fire, precise, moral.

John is no dog. A wolf, maybe.

John turns to look at him, and their eyes meet for a moment.

A wolf, definitely.


End file.
